


The Heat of Los Angeles

by grimm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Cop!Derek, M/M, Pretty much just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:47:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimm/pseuds/grimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles hates Los Angeles. He hates the heat and the perfect weather and the way people smile all the fucking time like they’re the happiest people on earth. He especially hates the kid who stands in front of him now, shaking in his too-big skater shoes while he waves a knife around. This just isn't his day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heat of Los Angeles

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa, a piece that's under 20K?! Under 10k! Under 5K! Just had to prove to myself that I can actually do short stuff once in a while. A ficlet, if you will.
> 
> I'm in the middle of a longer fic, but I banged this out tonight after getting nostalgic for high school at work today and listening to some good ol' Sugarcult. _Los Angeles_ has always been my favorite song by them. Also, I like any fic where Derek's a cop (or a firefighter, or an EMT). Yum.

_I want a love, love that won’t hit back_  
 _Want sex, sex without a catch_  
 _Want a face to trust, to feel, to lust_  
 _In the heat of Los Angeles_  
 _Wanna fuck, fuck, fuck this up_  
 _Gonna feel, feel, feel you up_  
 _Had enough, enough, enough’s enough_  
 _In the heat of Los Angeles_

_This city’s killing me_  
 _I want, I want, I want everything_  
 _This city’s killing me_  
 _In the heat of Los Angeles_  
 _What has become of me?_  
 _I want, I want, I want everything_  
 _This city’s killing me_  
 _I want everything_

-

Stiles hates Los Angeles. He hates the heat and the perfect weather and the way people smile all the fucking time like they’re the happiest people on earth. He yearns for Beacon Hills, where people are happy when they’re happy and unhappy when they’re not, but where there’s no _hiding_ things. The people here are fake - too tan, too beautiful. He falls in love about fifteen times a day, and out again just as quickly.

He’s tired. There’s no other way to put it. Moving south seemed like such a good idea when Scott brought it up after graduation. Something new, something exciting. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life – he still doesn’t – but he thought that maybe in a big city, he could try out some new things, learn a bit about himself. He doesn’t learn anything about himself. He learns to hate the city, the way the air tastes and feels grimy on his skin, the way his Jeep strains to function in the heat. He never sees Scott anymore, because he’s got a girlfriend who lives by herself and he spends all his time with her. Stiles is tired and bored and if he wasn’t stuck in a lease for another six months, he’d be gone already. Instead, he stands in a fucking organic smoothie shop for nine hours a day, hating everyone who comes through the door.

He especially hates the kid who stands in front of him now, shaking in his too-big skater shoes while he waves a knife around. Stiles watches him with disdain; this is the third time in as many weeks that the shop’s been robbed, and it’s kind of getting old.

“I’m telling you,” Stiles says again, patiently, “There’s only about fifty bucks in here. You really want to threaten me for that little?”

“Shut up,” the kid says – and yeah, this is just a high school kid; he’s probably skipping science class right now. “Just give it to me.”

“You want an envelope or something?” Stiles asks, because let no one say he isn’t helpful and anyway, it’s not worth it. The owner of the shop’s already told him to just let them take the money. “Here, let me—”

“Just give it to me!” the kid screeches. Stiles raises a placating hand and starts gathering the bills, but he’s moving too slow or something, because the kid reaches across the counter – grabs, more like it, the movement of his hand sending the knife skittering across Stiles’ skin. They both stare at the blood welling up from Stiles’ arm and then the kid freaks out, grabs as much money as he can, and trips going out the door, smacking his face against the metal doorframe in his haste to exit. Stiles actually laughs, then calls the police, because that’s what you do when you are held at knifepoint.

The dispatcher politely tells him there’s a unit in the area and within ten minutes there’s an officer coming through the door. Stiles looks up from where he’s got a bunch of napkins pressed to the cut on his arm and sighs. It’s the same officer who came the last two times Stiles got robbed, and like everyone else in LA, the man looks like a model, broad and tan, with beautiful hazel eyes. Stiles kind of crushed on him the first time they met, but the officer hardly speaks, and it’s hard to build a relationship with nothing to go on. This time, he just says, “You again.”

“Yeah, me,” Stiles says irritably. “Same old story.”

“You’re hurt,” the officer points out. Stiles squints at him, tries to remember what his name is. He can’t read the tag from across the shop.

“It’s nothing,” he says, but the officer’s already speaking into his radio, requesting an ambulance. “I don’t need to go to the hospital.”

The officer rolls his eyes, like he hears that every day – he probably does; there seem to be a lot of macho-types in this town, not that Stiles includes himself among them – and pulls out a notepad. “What happened this time?”

So Stiles tells him about how he got held up by a high-schooler (his dad’s going to laugh until he cries when he hears this). He points at the dent in the doorway where the kid’s skull hit the metal, in case the police want to do some DNA profiling or whatever it is you do with skin tissue, but the officer doesn’t look all that invested.

“So how much did he make off with?”

Stiles eyes the till. “Looks like about fifteen bucks in ones,” he says, as the EMTs come through the door. “Look, I’m _fine.”_ He takes the napkins off his cut, but it’s still bleeding. “Ugh.”

The officer steps closer as one of the emergency workers cleans the cut. He’s still writing in his notepad, looking distracted. Stiles didn’t think there was that much to his story – maybe he’s actually playing Sudoku or something, but at least he’s close enough so that Stiles can see his nametag now. Officer Hale. Officer Hale looks up from the notepad to find Stiles staring at him.

“What’s your name again?” Officer Hale asks, looking bored.

“Stiles Stilinski,” Stiles replies, breathing in through his nose as they begin stitching up the cut. “This is the third time you’ve asked me that. Are you going to ask me if I’m underage again too? Because I’ve told you twice – I’m twenty-three. You’ll never make detective with your memory.”

Office Hale flares his nostrils, which should not look as good as it does. “I see a lot of people everyday,” he says, sounding like he’s gritting his teeth.

“Shocking,” Stiles replies. He’s sweating a little, even in the air conditioning, because as it turns out, it’s not pleasant having a needle dragged through your skin. He holds onto his sass because it’s keeping him from passing out. “You think you’d have developed people skills by now.” At his elbow, one of the paramedics snorts.

Officer Hale’s jaw clenches and he starts writing in his notepad again. He’s either winning his Sudoku game or he’s plotting ways to kill Stiles, but he doesn’t rise. They probably teach you to avoid escalation at the police academy, Stiles thinks, taking pity on him. The EMTs wrap a bandage around his arm to keep his cut clean and hustle out.

“You want a drink?” Stiles asks Officer Hale. He supposes he should be thankful someone even came and took his statement. This isn’t exactly the nicest part of town. You think they’d be busier with other things.

“I can’t,” Officer Hale replies. “Not while I’m on duty.”

“I thought that was just for money,” Stiles points out, narrowing his eyes. His dad’s a cop. He knows this stuff. Kinda.

“It’s not.”

“Well, come back when you’re not on duty, and it’s on the house,” Stiles says sincerely. “We have a one hundred percent discount for members of law enforcement whose names begin with H and end in ale.”

“I’ll let my sister know,” Officer Hale says, and flips his notebook shut. No more Sudoku, then. “If that’s all the information you’ve got for me, I’ll be on my way.” He gives Stiles a considering look. “You should probably eat something. You’re looking a little pale.”

“Sure thing, doc,” Stiles replies, because that’s just the way he is. “I’ll probably have to close the shop. I’m pretty sure gaping arm wounds are against health code.”

Officer Hale rolls his eyes again and shoulders his way out of the shop. Stiles breathes out and his hands start shaking. He makes himself a huge smoothie with a massive scoop of organic peanut butter, and flips the open sign to close. He calls the shop owner, who tells him to go home, and he drives back to Culver City.

Because it’s just that kind of day, the Jeep sort of groans and gives up halfway down the freeway and he has to pull over, clouds of steam rolling out from under the hood. Stiles just leans against the wheel and lets out of groan of his own. He kind of wants to cry. All he wants, just for once, is for a day to go by smoothly. A day where he’s in Beacon Hills, preferably.

Someone taps on the door and he jumps, lifting his head, and his mouth falls open.

“No fucking way,” he mutters, because it’s Officer Hale, but Officer Hale in plainclothes, a leather jacket and old jeans and dark t-shirt and sunglasses. How the fuck is he wearing a leather jacket in this heat? Stiles is sweating in just a t-shirt, but the Jeep also lacks air conditioning and Officer Hale can probably afford something a little bit nicer than a Jeep from the 1970s.

For his part, Officer Hale looks just as horrified, but he recovers quickly. Stiles has to give him points for that. “Everything okay?”

“You don’t have to pretend to be worried,” Stiles tells him. “I know it’s not in your blood to have actual feelings.”

“It’s my _job,”_ Officer Hale snaps, pushing up his sunglasses. “If your car explodes on the side of the freeway, _I’m_ going to have to take care of the mess.”

“She’s not going to explode,” Stiles grumbles, moping at his forehead. “She was built to last, but she doesn’t like this heat.”

Officer Hale’s eyebrows rise so high they look like they might escape. “She?”

“My Jeep,” Stiles says defensively. “She’s a nice old lady.”

“Uh huh,” Officer Hale says flatly. “Well, you can’t just sit here. Do you need a tow?”

“Uh,” says Stiles. “Maybe? I don’t have AAA – I don’t know who to call.”

Officer Hale rolls his eyes and says, “I’ll call you one. Come on, get out of the car.”

“What?” Stiles yelps. _“Why?_ Are you arresting me?”

Officer Hale’s eyes are going to disconnect from their sockets if he rolls them any harder. “Because I have air conditioning in my car.” And he spins on his heel, stalking back to his own car. Stiles stares after him, then scrambles out of the Jeep.

Officer Hale, like he suspected, has a nice car, some sleek black sports thing – Stiles doesn’t know, he doesn’t know anything about cars, which is probably why his Jeep is sitting useless on the side of the freeway. Officer Hale’s car is blessedly cool inside, though, and Stiles sinks into the passenger seat with a sigh, listening to the cop call for a tow truck.

“It’s going to be a while,” he says finally. “There’s been a pile-up twenty miles north.”

This day just keeps getting better and better. “I hate this fucking town,” Stiles mutters, glaring out the window at the high-rises around them. He hates that this city has turned him into such a cynic. He thinks that the kid who held him up is probably the most real person he’s met here, and that’s fucked up.

Next to him, Officer Hale snorts. “How long have you been living here?”

“Year and a half,” Stiles replies. The first year wasn’t so bad; he worked at a branch of the Los Angeles Public Library until they’d downsized the staff and he’d lost his job as an archivist. The last six months had been seriously shitty.

“Stick it out another five years and tell me how much you hate it then,” Officer Hale says bitterly, like he’s speaking from experience.

“This city’s a fucking shithole,” Stiles tells him, and he’s surprised when Officer Hale nods in agreement. Stiles looks at him, really looks, past the tension in his jaw line and the jut of his cheekbones, and he can see the exhaustion under his eyes and in the lines around his mouth. He looks bitter and worn and everything Stiles has been carrying in his chest since he woke up one morning with the realization that he hates his life.

“I’m tired,” he says, and Officer Hale nods again, like he knows just what he means. The cop pushes his sunglasses back down and turns to stare out at the traffic rushing by.

They sit in silence for a while, surrounded by the smell of exhaust and the noise of traffic moving past them. Eventually, Stiles asks, “What’s your name?”

It’s Officer Hale’s turn to be impudent. “We’ve met three times,” he says, the corners of his mouth curling up roguishly. “Can’t you remember?”

“I meant your first name,” Stiles says irritably. Can’t take his own medicine, his dad would say.

“Derek,” Officer Hale replies simply, giving up the game with an easy shrug.

“Derek,” Stiles repeats, the name rolling off his tongue. Officer Hale – Derek – looks at him sharply, expression hidden behind his sunglasses, then away again. Stiles swallows. “Um. You don’t have to stay here. I don’t – I don’t know how much longer this is going to take, but you don’t have to wait. I’m sure you have better things to be doing.”

“I’d be remiss in my duties if I let you sit out here on your own,” Derek says stiffly.

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Sure. Okay.”

And they sit in silence again until the tow truck finally arrives forty-five minutes later. Derek follows the car to the garage, where a mechanic looks into the engine and says something complicated about tubes and coolant and oil and Stiles just nods and tries not to pass out when the mechanic gives him an estimate. He agrees to leave his Jeep there and then stands there uselessly until Derek gestures impatiently and says, “I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “You don’t have to do that. Seriously, you’ve done enough.”

“Just get in,” Derek snaps, and Stiles does.

He tells Derek where he lives, and as they’re getting close to his apartment, he blurts, “How about that drink, huh?”

Derek’s hands, restlessly tapping against the wheel a moment before, still. “What drink,” he says flatly, not a question.

“I told you I owe you a drink,” Stiles replies nervously, stumbling over his words in a haste to get them out. “You said not while you’re on duty, but you’re not now, are you? So?”

He watches the muscles work in Derek’s jaw before the cop says, “Okay,” and Stiles’ heart leaps.

Stiles tried the social thing when he first got into town and he and Scott didn’t know anyone. They’d go to clubs, but Stiles found the atmosphere smothering, and he hated the stench of cologne and having to shout over the music to be heard. Stiles’ last relationship had ended around the same time he lost his job, stupid, aggressive Brett with his quick temper and big fists. Sometimes Stiles still felt his hands on his throat and woke in the night in a cold sweat at the memory.

He doesn’t expect anything from Derek. Derek’s probably not even gay – he’s probably got a wife and a baby somewhere in a quiet suburb – but he’s agreed to a drink and a little company would be nice for once.

They go to a dive bar a couple blocks from Stiles’ apartment and Stiles pays for the first round and Derek pays for the second. They complain about the city and all the wannabe actors and tourists and rich assholes and suddenly Derek’s laughing at something Stiles says and Stiles’ heart swells before he can stop it. He has a feeling that Derek doesn’t laugh often, and he feels warm all over and some of the weariness lifts from his shoulders. They have another round and Stiles puts his hand on Derek’s thigh and Derek doesn’t pull away.

Fifteen minutes later they’re at the door to Stiles’ apartment and he fumbles with his keys while Derek presses up against him, mouth burning against the back of his neck. He gets the door open and pulls Derek in and hopes, for once, that Scott isn’t home. The apartment is quiet, however, and Stiles drops his keys and kicks off his shoes while Derek slips out of his leather jacket while trying to keep his body in contact with Stiles’.

It’s overwhelming. It’s intoxicating. It’s a whole number of complicated things that he doesn’t want to worry about right now. He presses his face to the curve of Derek’s neck and breathes him in, and he smells like warmth and cotton and everything Stiles has been missing. Derek sighs against him, so soft Stiles might have missed it if Derek’s mouth wasn’t right next to his ear, and then he digs his fingers into Stiles’ ass and fucking _growls_. The feral sound sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine and he grabs Derek’s hand, pulling him through the living room and into his bedroom.

Derek pulls him back before he can get to the bed, pulling him into a frantic kiss, all warmth and tongue, his big hands rubbing up and down Stiles’ sides, kicking his body into frenzied heat. Stiles tugs at his shirt and Derek lets him pull it off. Stiles quietly groans at the way Derek’s tight stomach muscles roll and stretch and he ducks his head to suck at Derek’s collarbone. The cop hisses and digs his fingers into Stiles' hips, grinding them together and Stiles can feel how hard he is, even through his jeans. He lifts his head to meet Derek’s lips once more, eyes fluttering shut when Derek reaches a hand in between them, palming his dick through his pants.

“Come on,” Stiles gasps, hooking his fingers through Derek’s belt loops and walking backwards until he bumps into the bed. Derek grins rakishly and pushes him down onto the mattress, nimble fingers unbuttoning his pants as they went. Stiles hurries to help him, shucking his shirt like a second skin, lifting his hips so Derek can slid his pants off. He reaches for Derek’s jeans but Derek smacks his hand away and presses his mouth to Stiles’ stomach, nipping at his skin before moving his mouth lower, mouthing at the damp cotton of Stiles’ boxers. His fingers are tight against Stiles’ thighs, digging in hard enough they’re probably bruise, and it hurts but it doesn’t, a weird mix of pleasure and pain shocking through Stiles’ body.

“Demon,” he accuses Derek. “Succubus. Incubus. Ah, _fuck,”_ he adds, as Derek pulls his boxers past his hips and slides his tongue over the head of his cock. It’s so good it almost hurts, and Stiles could come just looking at Derek’s face, at the way his eyes are half closed, dark lashes hiding their hazel green color. He can’t believe this is happening. He can feel himself getting close as Derek’s lips slide up and down his cock and he pulls at Derek’s hair, croaking, “Stop, stop, just _fuck_ me.”

Derek lifts his head and he’s beautiful, eyes heavy with lust, lips red and tender, the faintest flush on his cheeks. Stiles rubs his fingers against Derek’s cheek and the man closes his eyes, pressing into Stiles’ touch like a cat. Stiles bends so he can kiss him and the kiss is less frenetic, more languid than before. He can taste himself in Derek’s mouth and it’s weirdly heady.

Derek pulls away from his mouth to kiss a line down his jaw and throat and murmurs, his voice husky, “Condom?”

Stiles pushes against him, cursing, and twists to dig through his nightstand. Derek’s weight is heavy on his legs and he yelps when Derek’s teeth sink into his ass, not hard enough to really hurt but enough to bruise. He smacks Derek on the forehead in his haste to pass him the condom and lube he’s managed to locate and Derek sits up slowly, dragging his nails against Stiles’ thigh before sliding off his pants and underwear. Stiles rolls back onto his back, throat bobbing as he watches Derek roll the condom on and then the man leans forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of Stiles’ thigh as he rubs a slicked up finger against Stiles’ entrance. Stiles sighs, toes curling into the mattress as Derek slides it in slowly. His cock jumps against his stomach, leaking precome against his skin and Stiles sighs again.

Derek curls his free hand over Stiles’ hip, keeping him steady as he adds another finger, then another, fucking Stiles on his hand, reaching and curling until he brushes against his prostate and Stiles groans softly.

“Good?” Derek asks quietly, and his eyes aren’t on his hand but on Stiles’ face, watching him intently, carefully.

“So good,” Stiles mutters, his eyes fluttering closed. “Oh fuck, so good, Derek.”

“You ready?”

_“Please.”_

Derek probably grins and Stiles feels him shift, moving Stiles’ legs around him, lining himself up. Stiles lifts his legs, hooking his heels into the dips at the bottom of Derek’s spine. He feels Derek pressing against him, moving slow, so slow. Stiles has to open his eyes, has to see Derek’s face. Derek’s already looking at him, his face open and raw, and Stiles gasps, “Kiss me.”

Derek smiles and Stiles tries to ignore the way his heart swells again as the bigger man leans forward obligingly, pressing their mouths together. He’s all the way inside Stiles, thighs firm against Stiles’ ass, but he doesn’t move yet, just lets Stiles sweep his tongue into his mouth, lets him bite at his lip, mouth at the underside of his jaw. When he does start moving, it’s in small thrusts at first, barely shifting his hips, but it’s enough to have Stiles dig his heels into Derek’s back, head tilting back against the bed.

When Derek starts moving in earnest, it’s all Stiles can do to keep from crying out with every thrust. He feels it deep in his bones, Derek shaking him apart and putting him back together with every movement. His breathing is rough in Stiles' ear, leaning low on his forearms, bracketing Stiles’ head and Stiles reaches up to brace himself, holding onto Derek’s shoulders for all he’s worth. There are tears in the corners of his eyes – good tears, the best kind of tears – and he could watch Derek move forever, the undulation of his body almost unbearably graceful, fluid.

When Stiles comes, he feels it coming from a long way away, like a summer storm building on the horizon. It hits him like a lightning strike, rolling up from his toes in one long, hot wave, and he comes in thick stripes across his stomach and throat, back bending in an impossible arch. Derek moans helplessly, head turning to capture Stiles’ mouth as he fucks into him uncontrollably, hips snapping roughly. He comes with a muffled noise, thick cock pulsing with heat inside Stiles. They lay still for a few long, quiet moments, breathing steadying slowly. Derek pulls out of Stiles eventually and Stiles feels the emptiness keenly, missing Derek already.

Derek sits up, turns away, pulls off the condom and knots it. They don’t say anything, but Stiles has done this before. He knows how it goes, and he hates it. He hates the emptiness that comes from hook-ups, and he hates himself for giving in, because Derek’s going to leave and the thoughts hurts because while they were moving together, connected so intimately, he wasn’t tired, and he wasn’t thinking about how much he hated the city. He just _was,_ and it was perfect and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to find something like this again for a very long time.

So it’s a shock when Derek leans down to put the condom in the trash and then he shifts backward, settling down beside Stiles with a quiet, contented noise. Stiles relaxes in increments, slowly shifting so he’s on his side, pressed up against Derek. Derek says nothing, just shifts with him, looping an arm around his stomach. Stiles can feel Derek’s heart beating against his back and his heartbeat is easy and calm.

“You still tired?” Derek murmurs against the back of his neck, and Stiles knows he’s not talking about physical exhaustion.

“No,” Stiles mumbles back. “You?”

“No,” Derek says, and Stiles’ heart lightens. Maybe this city isn’t so bad after all.

-

_This is the realest thing  
As ancient choirs sing  
A dozen blushing cherubs wheel above  
Los Angeles, my love_

**Author's Note:**

> Good ol' Decemberists lyrics at the end there - _Los Angeles, I'm Yours_.
> 
> I'm on tumblr! -> [grimm-times...are party times?!](grimm-times.tumblr.com)


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